Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Mac's. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. ‘You see, unlike you, mademoiselle, your cavalier here would not wish to be arrested. “I expected you this morning,” he said.
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